Cut from the Same Cloth

by Kathleen Baldwin

  He shrugged.

  Rather than dressing up for the occasion of seeing his father, St. Evert had donned a pair of nankeen trousers, more suited for riding than the drawing room, and a plain cambric shirt with no neckcloth. Then she remembered. “I do apologize for ruining your only dress shirt, my lord.”

  “Small matter. My father would be alarmed if I were to put on my best bib and tucker for a mere visit. He might think he’d passed, and was a ghost at his own funeral. Surely nothing else could induce me to put on finery at home.”

  Before she could sort out this odd comment, he had Elizabeth on his arm, leading her up the stairs again. “Come along. With any luck we will arrive in his room before my aunt does.”

  Lord Ransley’s bedroom was dark and smelled of close, fetid air and a heavy cologne, which had been sprinkled liberally to mask the odor. Servants were lighting more candles as Elizabeth and Valen entered.

  Lord Ransley sat up in bed, an eager expression on his face. “Valen, my boy, delighted to see you. And you’ve brought your bride! How lovely she is.”

  Valen’s feet suddenly stuck to the floor. He clamped Elizabeth’s hand in place on his arm with the strength of an iron shackle. They came to such an abrupt stop, she nearly stumbled. Elizabeth glanced sideways at him and saw sheer panic on his face.

  Apparently the very notion of an alliance between the two of them struck Lord St. Evert dumb with terror. How very amusing. Insulting, but amusing. It would have only required a small explanation to set the matter right with his father. But she decided he might jolly well extricate himself from this little tangle without any help from her.

  “I... no. She’s not my... we haven’t…” The fact that the high and mighty, overconfident Lord St. Evert stammered nearly moved her to laughter. All too quickly he recovered and stiffened to attention. “Has Aunt Honore been here already?”

  His father shook his head. “Honore? No.” He gestured weakly in Elizabeth’s direction. “She’s not—?”

  “No.”

  His father’s countenance wilted.

  St. Evert urged her toward Lord Ransley’s bedside. “That is to say, she’s an acquaintance. A friend.”

  At least it did not put him to the blush to call her his friend. He presented Elizabeth to his father, leaving off her title, which she thought curious, but did not correct. She was, after all, his guest, and so she ought to cooperate with whatever subterfuge he deemed necessary.

  “You promised.” Lord Ransley raked his pale fingers through the wispy brown hair above his brow.

  Valen stiffened. “I assure you, my lord, I will keep my word. All in good time.”

  “Sometime before the next age, I hope.” Lord Ransley coughed, his chest heaving as he struggled to suppress a spasm. “I’d like to be here to see it.”

  Valen brightened. “That is the very reason I brought Miss Hampton to you. She is skilled with herbs. It is my hope she might strengthen your lungs with one of her concoctions.”

  Elizabeth stared at St. Evert, wondering how he had divined her fascination with the medicinal characteristics of plants. However, she was not skilled by any stretch of the imagination, a mere novice at best. She tugged on his sleeve, trying to admonish him to stop inflating her abilities.

  His father’s interest rekindled slightly. “You brought me an herbalist? A healer?”

  St. Evert grimaced. “Not a healer, precisely. She’s versed in some herbal remedies, and aside from that, I thought you might enjoy her company. She has offered to play chess with you, read books, that sort of thing.”

  “Read to me? You brought a young lady here to read to me?” Lord Ransley’s brows furrowed skeptically as he glanced from one to the other as if trying to decipher their true objective.

  Lady Alameda swished into the bedroom, her silk skirts rustling. “Ah, William! So, you’ve met our Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Lady Elizabeth? But—” Lord Ransley fell into a short paroxysm. “Valen said—”

  “Told you everything, did he?”

  St. Evert inhaled noisily, flexed his jaw muscles, and glared at his aunt.

  His aunt completely disregarded his warning. “And did he mention that he’s been chasing after some demented French spy who is on the rampage in London? Fellow hangs close to the shadows, I can tell you that. I had a devil of a time finding out more about him.”

  “A spy? What nonsense is this, Valen?” Lord Ransley started to cough but reached for a glass of water on the bed stand and sipped before continuing. “Are you putting yourself in danger again? We discussed this—”

  Valen stepped in front of his aunt and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s nothing. Don’t trouble yourself over it. Truly. It is a small administrative affair I must finish up—nothing more.”

  Lady Alameda muttered under her breath, “Administrative affair, indeed. Is that what they call mur—”

  He cut her off. “I told Lord Ransley that Elizabeth is versed in herbs and will try to ease some of his discomfort with her tonics.”

  “Her?” Lady Alameda edged around Valen. “Fiddle faddle! Doubtful the gel knows a bluebell from a nightshade. Lucky thing if she doesn’t poison him.”

  Elizabeth murmured that she most certainly did know the difference, but no one attended.

  Lord Ransley rested deep in his pillows, shading his eyes against the candlelight. “This is all very confusing. When the servants told me Valen had come with a young lady in tow, naturally I thought he’d found…” He glanced wistfully at Elizabeth. “A wife to bring a measure of joy into his life, our lives.”

  Another cough shook his body, and then another followed. He sat up to manage the explosive surges from his lungs. The lace at his throat and on his wrists fluttered with each shuddering effort. He yanked a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his mouth, but a dribble of blood at the corner of his lips remained. “I had hoped…” Too tired to finish the thought, Lord Ransley closed his eyes and lay back.

  As he rested, Elizabeth could not help but observe the weary lines in his face that had been carved by too much pain. Obviously Lord Ransley did not hide from his affliction by overusing opiates. To avoid suffering, he might well have drifted into a murky drug-induced land of nightmares and dreams that would cloud his pain, just as Elizabeth’s mother had done to escape her troubles. Lord Ransley had enough courage and enough concern for his son to stay in the land of the living despite his pain. She wondered if Valen realized his good fortune.

  Lady Alameda flicked her nephew on the arm.

  “I gave you my word. I will keep it.” Lord St. Evert reminded his father, bristling as he did so. “I should think that would suffice.”

  Lady Alameda flicked him again.

  Elizabeth stepped back. Valen appeared to be nearing the limit of what he would tolerate.

  In carefully measured tones, he reiterated, “It is not something that can be achieved in a day. It may require some time.”

  After all the flicking, his aunt surveyed her fingernails. When she found them unharmed, she glanced up at her nephew wearing a narrow vengeful expression. “Unfortunately, Valen is proving rather thickheaded on that score. Seems your son imagines he might find his happiness with a lisping dodo bird rather than preferring someone who can play a decent game of chess.”

  “What?” Lord Ransley lifted his hand halfheartedly. “Can’t fathom that. Lad needs a challenge.” He turned to Valen. The gray circles ringing his eyes wrung compassion out of all near him. They all leaned closer to hear what he might say. “Didn’t you tell me this young lady plays chess?”

  Honore grinned wickedly. “How very astute, William. I believe you are right.”

  “You are tired, my lord.” Valen pulled Elizabeth back from the bed. “We will leave you to rest.”

  “You two run along.” The countess’s voice had a cheerful, singsong quality as she shooed them out. “My brother and I have a great deal to catch up on.”

  Valen hesitated. If he could bodily pic
k up his aunt and haul her from the room without it upsetting his father, Elizabeth was fairly certain he would do exactly that.

  “He is tired, Aunt Honore. You must leave him.” He issued it as an order, one that any soldier would have jumped to and obeyed.

  “Nonsense. I’ve only just arrived.”

  16

  Ribbons and Garlic Balls, Tied Up With Lace

  Elizabeth awoke early the next morning, as was her habit, and glanced around the room, unable to remember where she was. In the faint light, she failed to recognize the tapestries on the wall or the massive carved bedposts. Was she waking or still dreaming? She sat up, clutching the coverlet. Then she remembered. This was his home, Valen’s home.

  Slipping out of bed, she went to the window and tugged back the velvet curtain. Morning. The sun had not yet risen above the crimson horizon. Misty pink light melted over the land as it curved and undulated in delightful grassy pastures dotted with sheep and patches of yellowing grain, each patch bounded by meandering rock walls and winding brooks. Perhaps she had fallen asleep and awakened in a previous century, for surely the land had looked exactly thus a hundred years ago, a land completely unaffected by the rigors and expectations of society. Elizabeth took a deep breath and tried not to envy Valen for that.

  On a nearby hill, she spied the ruins of the old keep and decided that a bracing morning walk might clear her head from the effects of the opiates. But before she left, she dug a small rosewood recorder out of her trunk, a treasure from her childhood she always kept with her.

  Elizabeth slipped quietly out of the manor house and into the welcoming morning air. Along the way, she stopped to pick some red clover flowers in the pastures, dropping them into the pocket of her serviceable old muslin walking dress, wondering if a tea made from the blossoms might not be used to strengthen Lord Ransley’s lungs. Wandering in the direction of the old keep, she hoped to climb the hill and have a look at the crumbling stone walls, but the ruins proved to be further away than she’d anticipated.

  A brook the width of a country lane obstructed her path. Standing at the edge, she watched the ribbon of clear water ripple over stones and wash over moss as it hurried on its way. Here and there, minnows swam against the current and then allowed themselves to be carried along only to playfully battle their way back up the stream.

  There was not one soul in sight. What harm would there be if she waded across and, perhaps, scooped up a handful of water to quench her thirst? Ladies must not be seen without stockings and shoes.

  “I’m alone. No one will see me.” Elizabeth willfully ignored the ladylike admonition of her former governess, removed her shoes, and tiptoed onto a stone. She balanced on the rock as a thin stream of cold water ran around her bare foot. She held up her skirts and laughed softly. Her next step missed and carried her into the water almost up to her calf. By the time she forded the little stream, she was shivering. Her shoes and stockings lay forgotten on the bank behind her as she climbed onto a large rock and sat there to dry in the sun before crossing back.

  She took out her recorder and began to play. It was a perfect morning. With each tune she played, her heart seemed lighter. The round notes of the recorder echoed against the vastness of the countryside, floating up, carrying away her troubles and fears.

  * * *

  Valen heard Elizabeth long before he saw her, knowing the flute song must belong to her rather than a shepherd. There was a complexity to the melody that spoke of her, a frivolous string of notes followed by a melancholy turn that caused his own heart to ache in response. But as soon as the music touched him with despair, she altered the chords, replaying an airy, childlike cadence.

  From the hilltop he spotted her and nudged Hercules down the rise. “Come on, boy. Care to have a look at the most bothersome female in all of Christendom?”

  The big chestnut snorted and picked up his gait.

  Izzie didn’t seem to notice their approach. The scattered trees and bushes lining the little stream must have obscured her view. Valen guided Hercules to an opening in the growth across the creek from her and sat listening as she played. Her toes dangled naked over the edge of a boulder, waggling in rhythm to her convoluted tune, a tune which ended abruptly when she finally spotted him.

  * * *

  Elizabeth glanced up from fingering her flute and nearly fell off the rock, startled. Across the creek, astride a huge red horse, Valen looked like an ancient raiding warlord. She realized, in that moment, what she had secretly known in her heart all along. He was quite possibly the most magnificent man on earth.

  Small wonder he hid himself behind such ridiculous clothing. With his title and prospects, if he’d come to town dressed properly, every female in London would have lined up to bat their eyelashes at him. And it was only a matter of time before they all discovered what now seemed so abundantly evident to Elizabeth.

  What a blind fool she’d been. Lord St. Evert would have his choice of females while she would be left with either a very rich mincing poet or a wealthy cherubic coxcomb. If only her situation were different.

  She wondered if St. Evert might have a large allowance granted from his father. Not large, she amended, an enormous allowance. Or perhaps there was a chance the income from his inheritance might suffice. A very small chance. Even so, how would she convince him that she suited? Little hope of either. He thought of her as a troublesome marmot. Elizabeth let the recorder drop into her pocket, the music in her soul evaporated.

  Valen prodded his mount forward, splashed into the brook, picking the way carefully across the water and up the bank to her rock. He dismounted and stood beside her. “A fine morning, my lady.” He wore no hat and had on a rough cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up over the muscles of his arms as if he were a tenant farmer just come in from the fields.

  She nodded and tried to smile, but it wouldn’t work. She fought back an overpowering sense of loss. Must he stand so close? So wretchedly near and yet completely out of reach.

  He jibed her. “Another of your bracing morning walks, I take it?”

  She refused to take the bait and glanced over her shoulder toward the old keep. “I had thought I might climb up to the ruins. But I…”

  “Got waylaid by the brook.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Catching trout with your toes?” He ran his finger along the arch of her foot, sending a burst of sensation up into her belly and an embarrassing heat into her cheeks.

  She tucked her feet up under the hem of her gown. “I saw a few, but I’m afraid they were far too swift for my toes.”

  “Very wily trout in this brook. I used to fish at this very spot when I was a boy.” A lock of his hair had fallen loose and hung by his cheek, shining like amber in the sunlight. She ought not look at him.

  She pressed her fingers against the granite, using the sharp little protrusions on the stone to distract her senses. “It must have been wonderful growing up in a place so beautiful as this.”

  He glanced off into the distance and frowned. “It was quiet.”

  “No brothers or sisters to make noise?”

  He sat down on the rock beside her, propping his boots against the rough surface. Arms crossed, he still held the reins. “I didn’t realize you were a musician.”

  “I expect there are a great many things you do not know about me, my lord. But you have not answered my question.”

  “No. No brothers. No sisters.”

  “A pity. The manor is so large. I can almost imagine the stone walls echoing with the sound of children playing at sword fights and hide-and-seek.”

  “You have a vivid imagination. Aside from that, I did not live in the manor until I was much older.”

  “Oh? In St. Evert village, then?”

  “Hardly.” He chuckled, but not happily, almost as though she had made an annoying comment. “St. Evert, is, as you observed before, a lesser title. My grandfather portioned off the estate and sold it to local farmers. There remains a small indep
endent village, the title, and a very meager income from one small farm. Nothing so generous as the thousand or two you had speculated on, my dear lady.”

  Elizabeth said nothing but stared down at her hands folded in her lap. He had nothing in pocket. Which meant, of course, an alliance between them was impossible. She held back the telling sigh that fought to escape her throat. She would not think of it.

  Valen slapped the ends of his reins against his other hand. “The scoundrel did it to ensure my father would have no money of his own.” Pushing off the rock, he turned and planted his hands on either side of her, trapping her, staring straight into her eyes, as if she were responsible for the acts of his grandfather. “You see, my father did a foolish thing in his youth—he fell in love.”

  She waited, her pulse throbbing mercilessly while he stood so close to her. She wanted to touch his cheek, pull his mouth to hers, soothe away his anger. But that would be unwise. Ladies must not be forward. They must not lose their heads. Her mind flapped around like a trapped wild bird, squawking inanities, or else you will end up like Marie Antoinette, brokenhearted and headless. Too late. Elizabeth might as well let them lop hers off right now. She was done for. In an instant and a half, if he didn’t move away, she would throw her arms around his neck, the consequences be damned.

  He studied her. “I’m not like you.”

  She swallowed. No, thank the good Lord. He was exceedingly different, gloriously male. And she adored every speck of that difference. The square hard lines of his face, the low rumble of his voice, the muscles of his shoulders—

  “Shall I show you?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded, uncertain as to what she was agreeing upon, but just now, he might ask her anything and she would give consent. Where was her father with his birch rod? Years of tutors and governesses, countless whippings and scoldings, and still she hadn’t learned a thing. She was still quite willing to take a flying leap off the roof—yet again.